The Bellwether Revivals by Benjamin Wood Page B

he’d last spoken to them, and though he didn’t have much news to tell them, he felt an urge to hear their voices again.
    His mother answered, adopting her best telephone manner. ‘How are you, son? Haven’t heard from you in ages.’ He filled her in on events at work, and she told him all about the goings-on in the estate, gossiping about people he used to know. His cousin Terry, she said, had been in a fight with a bouncer in town; he’d had seven stitches across his eyebrow. ‘I hope you’re staying out of trouble. I suppose there aren’t many fights to get into in your neck of the woods, eh? Not unless you’re scrapping with the toffs. I’ll put your father on.’
    There was a noise of someone jostling with the receiver, before he heard the gruff voice of his father: ‘Yeah.’
    ‘Hi, Dad.’
    ‘Oh. It’s you. Hi.’
    ‘How’s everything?’
    ‘Same as ever. You?’
    ‘Fine.’
    ‘Uh-huh.’
    He was long used to awkward gaps in conversation with his father. ‘Just thought I’d see how you were doing.’
    ‘Mm-hm.’ His father paused. ‘It’s always quiet this time of year. Not much doing.’
    ‘Things’ll pick up.’
    ‘Yeah. Anyway. I think your mother wants another word.’ Oscar could hear the muted sound of his parents bickering, and the signature theme of the ITN news. His mother came back on to remind him to call more often, and to check in with his cousin Terry. ‘Better go, son,’ she said, ‘your father’s calling.’ And then the line went dead.
    There was no more sleep left in him, so he got up and turned onhis computer. It was an old machine and took a while to grind through its gears. An email was waiting in his inbox. The subject line read: ‘Apology’.
    Dear Oscar,
    I’m terrible with computers, so I hope this message gets to you. I would genuinely like to thank you for giving me this chance to apologise for my behaviour the other night, and to explain myself—not many people would be so accommodating. Here is what I know my sister would like me to say:
    I’m very sorry, Oscar, for putting you through that silly ordeal the other night
.
For making you feel embarrassed
.
For hurting you. I’m deeply sorry for it all. I’m afraid I rather lost control of myself. I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive me. Oh please please please
.
    But that isn’t what I’ll say. I won’t insult your intelligence or your integrity with that kind of tripe. Because I know you don’t need an apology from me. What you need is my approval.
    Iris tells me that your hand has more or less completely healed.
I am
tremendously glad about that, though I’m not in the least bit surprised. I had no doubt that it would be better by morning. The other night was probably an unusual experience for you, Oscar, but for me it was quite ordinary. You wouldn’t believe the extent of my capabilities, though perhaps you might permit me to show you one day.
    I know what Iris thinks about me, and I’m really very glad that you’ve taken it upon yourself to help her. She has her reasons for trying to make it seem like I’m ill (most of them are quite worthy reasons, too). But, Oscar, I’m not ill (and even if I were, I certainly wouldn’t be stupid enough to write to you admittingit). So I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t pronounce me a lunatic just yet, because, contrary to what you thought were my cruel intentions the other night, I do actually like you. I find you interesting—much more than any of my sister’s former
objets d’affection
. There’s a depth to you that isn’t clear from the surface. I always find that an intriguing quality in a person.
    In any case, I’d prefer it if you didn’t reply to this message. I’m not interested in having a pen pal. But what’s become very clear to me these last few weeks is how much my sister seems to like you. Really, she’s never talked about anyone as much as she talks about you. Just between us, I think she might be in danger of